Thursday, October 30, 2014

Examine the box at the back of your mind’s closet. You know
the one. The things you don’t miss. The things you want to forget. These things
also shape us. They carry with them stories. The dark places we don’t want to
revisit.

Why is horror such a successful genre? Easy. It invites us
into the dark closets of other in order to flush out the demons we all
recognize. We don’t want to face OUR demons but we can do so with someone else’s
from the safety of the movie theater or our sofa.

The dark places aren’t meant to be forgotten. They aren’t meant
to be brooded over or allowed to fester. That creates instability and bitter
anger. They are meant to be handled gently, with care, and let go. Like thin
skinned balloons they are released in the air, one at a time, and once high
enough, they crack. Pop! Disperse.

Some of us root around in other’s closets to find boxes of
baggage. Some of us wallow in our own. Others lock the door and bask in
reflected sunlight from others because the shadow of our secrets won’t allow us
to absorb the light of freedom. We smile. We try. We fail.

What are the dark things you carry? Think hard. Have you let
them go? Have you made peace with your demons? We will never be perfect and
some things are impossible to forgive or forget. But we can face them, look
them in the eye and see them for what they really are. When that is done, they
lose power and they can be let go. Unfortunately we are also the dark things we
carry.

Let them out into the open. They lose their power that way.
Write about them. Expose them. Show them who’s boss.

Happy Halloween! Go be something fabulous, frightening or
freakish. It’s your one night to be anything you want to be.

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

The things we carry are also intangible. These are more
important. These are the memories and the stories we carry. These are the
things no one can take from us. They require no luggage, no extra plane space.
They are fibers of our being, woven from experience and shared over cups of
tea, pints of beer, and slices of pizza. These things are irreplaceable.

The stories. It’s the STORIES that make the THINGS we carry
so important. Stories are embedded within the things in our lives. We all
carry stories and ultimately it’s stories that connect us to place and things
and the stories connected to those places and things draw us back and make it
so hard to part.

Things don’t matter. They’re just things. This is true.
Stuff can always, always be replaced. It can be given away, stolen, cast aside,
destroyed or enshrined. Stuff is just stuff. But the stories connected to those
things live forever. I will always see the small, crystal serving dish my
grandmother served canned cranberry sauce from every Thanksgiving and think of
her. My mother now serves canned cranberry sauce from it. The thing itself is
worthless. If it broke I would be sad because it is a tangible connection to my
grandmother and Thanksgivings past. BUT the STORY is always there, in my memory
and the memories of all nine of us cousins. When the dish itself is dust the
story will be here, circulating from the mouths of our children, grandchildren,
nieces and nephews.

Do you see WHY that old plastic stirring spoon you couldn’t
throw out after your great uncle died means so much? It’s not a bit of plastic;
it’s a conduit for memory. It’s a portkey for story. We don’t deliberate over
boxes of things to sell, store, or carry for fun. It’s not beer and skittles
when it comes to downsizing. It’s arduous and heartbreaking. Yes, we always
have the stories but the things are the grounding wire, the roots to our ever
expanding branches of memory. To have the THING, be it actual,
representational, or pictorial, is to have something to touch and transport.
Think of the china, the platters, the plastic spoons as time capsules, not
stuff to be tossed after your death.

And should the time come when you must leave everything
behind, don’t bemoan the fact you’ve lost stuff. Mourn, yes. It’s necessary and
cathartic. Then remember. Remember the stories connected to those things. THAT’S
what is so important about the things we carry. That is why we carry them in the
first place.

What do YOU carry, Dear Reader? You’ve mentioned things that
root and ground you. Some of you have even told me you’ve left everything
before but kept those things that rooted you to the past and acted as anchors
for the future. Think of the stories. What do you carry?

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Many, if not most, of you have heard of Tim O’Brien’s
masterful work TheThingsTheyCarried. I’ve read
most of it in excerpts thanks to multiple college English and literature
courses. It’s a beautiful, haunting tale of the Vietnam War told through the
eyes of a young soldier and the seemingly endless list of things he and his
platoon carried with them into battle. Things both literal and figurative.
Things both tangible and metaphysical. Ever since I read it I’ve wondered: what
do I carry? If people could see the things I carry would I look like Marley’s
ghost, dragging long chains wrapped ‘round my ankles and arms? Or would the
things I carry gossamer behind me like moonlight on the sea?

The things we carry are important. They are the things that
make us, mold us and shape us. Some things we have a choice in carrying; other
things were forced on us, shoved upon us, never asked for. We can choose to
cast those things aside but they will forever haunt our steps. In the physical
sense, the things we carry root and ground us to where we are, where we’re from
and where we are going.

Never before have I thought so much about this. Never
before have I had to.

Last week I blogged about trying to find order in the chaos
of a big move. Since then I’ve come across the term “new normal”. I thank a
dear friend for that. Establishing a new normal is an ordeal. For my friend it
has been in the wake of her first child, for me, the surrealistic venture of
uprooting and replanting.

New city, new vibe, new place.

Both frightening and enticing.

This past week I’ve contemplated the things we carried with
us, the things we deemed necessary enough to travel 200 miles with us. What of
the things we left behind? We kept them for a reason, didn’t sell them, but
there wasn’t room enough for them in the moving van or in the house.

The things we carried:

One book shelf worth of books.
Old dishes, tea cups and saucers.
A messenger bag of writing ideas, article prompts and no less than three rough
drafts.
50 record albums.
Every Tim Burton film we own and three copies of Star Wars, the original
(**only**) trilogy on VHS.
A box of tea.
Three binders of torn out magazine pages of craft ideas, product designs and
printmaking techniques.
The cat.

Of course there’s more. Like my husband’s favorite painting
that looks more like Louis XVI dressed as a Christmas tree topper than the “Archangel
Gabriel” as it is entitled. The print of one of Tolkien’s drawings for TheHobbit
that has hung on a wall in every house or apartment I’ve lived in. A hand
written note from Madeleine L’Engle.

My great aunt’s sewing machine.

We are the things we carry. They are outward manifestations
of our inner lives. Why else do we buy particular brands? To look a part, true,
but also because on the inside we carry aspirations and dreams. We, like
the Tardis, are bigger on the inside.

Much, much bigger.

Thank you ALLfor sharing with me the things you’ve carried
with you from moves as well as from loved ones. It’s been a wonderful
experience learning I’m not alone in this bizarre transition to the “new normal”.
Have a wonderful week!

Thursday, October 23, 2014

The box was labeled “Kitchen. Heavy. Fragile.” Lifting those
Blue Willow dishes onto the counter had a profound effect on me. The morning
sun was seeping into the kitchen and the light fell just “so” onto the familiar
pattern. The white counter created a blank canvas that allowed my eyes to form
a picture so comforting that I had to pause and smile.

That simple act of recognition fortified me. I knew from
that moment that I was going to be OK, that we’d made the right decision to move.
Crazy. A box of dishes, old and chipped grabbed me by the gut and said, “You’re
fine! You’ve got this!”

Sometimes all it takes is a glance, a chance encounter with something
from your childhood. A memory, a smell, the taste of gingerbread as leaves
begin to fall. Our minds work with our emotions and senses to create a sense of
well-being. I “knew” this but I suppose it took the act to solidify the truth
of it.

Holding those dishes during supper remind me of my
grandmother and my mother, Seeing them on my open shelves relate comfort.
Inanimate, fragile, one day shards of dust they anchor this gal to the here and
now and the reality that, regardless of where I find myself, I am still “me”.
Location can’t change that. Loss of something I thought I couldn’t live without
doesn’t erase a piece of me.

Things. What is it about them that help us hold on? Since we’ve
moved I’ve often wondered about the people who lose everything, who have
nothing familiar to shift from lost house to new home. I used to be able to say
I could do that. It can’t be that hard. It’s just, as I have to remind myself,
stuff.

But, oh how we don’t really know how much of our comfort is wrapped up
in a chipped tea cup, a well-thumbed novel, or a photograph of our father. When
they aren’t there, we flounder. When they are, however, they smile down from
new shelves and out of strange windows to whisper familiarity in the midst of
the unknown. Those people who lose everything and soldier forward, pick up the
pieces, and retain their sense of self I admire. I applaud. I am in awe and if
you, Reader, have ever found yourself in that situation, if I was there, I’d
hug you.

I need recognition from inanimate things. I need that silent
welcome home.

Have you ever uprooted your life and sought solace in
something familiar? A book, a poem, a song? Perhaps a photograph or a statuette
of a squirrel. For me, it was a mixed up set of Blue Willow dishes. You?

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

For the past few years, my husband and I have enjoyed
starting our off days outside with a cup of coffee. Unless it’s just stupid
cold, you can find us pajama clad with warm, dark goodness on whatever morning
finds us at home together. I’ve even garnered a small but loyal group of
Instagram followers who consistently tell me they look forward to seeing what
coffee cup I’ll feature next. In the upheaval we now call Savannah Move 2014
(or my personal favorite, The Great Hampton Exodus) that lovely routine was
disrupted.

A lot.

As in “lost for almost two weeks”.

We danced when we found the box with the coffee pot. I may
have sang a bit of Handel when I discovered the French press and the tea
kettle. Finding quality, whole bean coffee was another challenge soon remedied
by my husband who ventured to Perc Coffee Roasters a mere two miles from our
house.

Suddenly there were familiar sounds and smells amidst the chaos.
The coffee grinder echoed off the galley kitchen walls. The coffee maker needed
no reminder that its job was to create liquid goodness. Oh how I smiled when we
made that first pot of coffee in our new place, poured it into familiar mugs
and sat, outside, at the rickety little café table I wouldn’t trade for anything.

As a writer I understand the concept of routines and why it’s
so important to establish them. When it comes to professional pursuits I can
convince myself that it’s imperative that I train my muse, my creativity and my
brain.

Why is it so hard to do the same for more important things?
Honestly, I had no idea how much I needed those mornings outside with coffee in
a mug with silly pictures. How much I needed to sit outside, shielded from the
world by some form of patio, in my jim-jams.

Routine is not just necessary to train your muse to show up
every time your butt lands in your writing chair. It’s also not just something
you do so you can check it off your never-ending to-do- list. Routine tells us
everything is OK, ensures that we’re not crazy, flipping idiots. Routine says, “Hey,
you might be living in some chaos right now. Life may be a bit topsy-turvy.
Heck, everything may be going to hell in a hand basket and it’s all your fault
BUT there’s still tea to be had.

I mean, think about it: why DID Arthur Dent need that cup of
tea so badly? He needed something familiar, some normality in the face of the
violent upheaval of his hum-drum existence.

We NEED routine. We need things that whisper of normality
even if nothing is familiar. It may take a while, but little by little, those
old routines will establish themselves in a new place. Slowly but surely my
soul will come home again.

What routines do you need in your life? Do you stick to the
same routines in your writing, your mornings, your drive to work?

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Something truly amazing happens when you take that magical
first step towards the realization of your dreams. The world opens up. People
appear to help you. Doors begin to open.

Sounds like rainbows and unicorns doesn’t it?

It’s not.

In fact it’s hard. Very, very hard. We left an area where we’d
lived for the entirety of our married life. An area where we’d established
ourselves, made friendships, had weekly routines that put us in places where we
were known, cared for, and loved.

Twelve years ago I moved away from the only home I’d ever
known. I packed up my bedroom and moved 200+ miles away to start my adult life
in Savannah, GA. For two years I called the Hostess City of the South my home
and then, without warning, my wandering soul tugged me back Atlanta-ways. And
now I’m sitting here, in a shaded courtyard, back in Savannah, this time with a
husband and a cat in tow.

I thought this time it would be easy.

I thought this time it would be a piece of that proverbial
cake.

I was wrong.

It’s been tough, Dear Reader. Because of health challenges,
this is the first time I’ve had a full time job in five years. We downsized to
half (read that HALF) the living space we were used to. My husband has yet to
find a job and parking in Savannah is anything but a dream. We are still
getting the house in order, still trying to piece together the things that came
with us and wondering where some of what was supposed to come ended up. Many
nights I wake up and wonder, “Am I just %^*$*^$ crazy?”

The positive:

1. I HAVE a full time job and I LOVE IT!
Seriously. I have never, ever been able to say with 100% conviction that I love
my job until now. It’s a gloriously cheerful boutique kitchen shop smack in the
heart of the historic district, right outside one of the busiest tourist spots.
It’s maddeningly crazy but after two weeks I STILL want to one day own my own
shop. I must be doing something right.

2. The owner of our carriage house is awesome.

3. My boss is
fracking amazing.

4. We live 20 minutes from Downtown Savannah and 20 minutes from
the Atlantic Ocean.

Yes, Readers, it IS a wonder to watch your dreams come
true. A crazy ball of mixed emotion wonder.

It took me a while, but I finally understand why it’s been
such a hard transition this time. Over the past twelve years I’ve established
rituals and routines that give my psyche the much needed recognition of “this
is life and this is good”. When most of everything you own has either been sold
or packed and left behind, it’s hard to find your footing. Yes, it’s just stuff
but we are -for right or wrong, better or worse- connected to the things we
carry. We’re thrown off balance when the things that anchor us are lost at sea.
I found myself seriously wanting to go back. What brought me back to sanity?

A simple cup of tea.

The sound of water in a kettle, the clatter of sugar spoon
against porcelain, the smell of a bag of green tea. Nothing profound. Chances
are you’re thinking, “It’s tea. Big deal.” When the soul is thrown into a tail
spin it is, most definitely, a big deal.

I’m discovering many things that are grounding, things I
always took for granted: a playlist for an as yet unwritten novel, a particular
series of books, consuming ridiculous amounts of Chick-Fil-A, country music
from 1998. Rituals. We need them. And it doesn’t matter how petty, how
ludicrous, how insignificant they may seem to others. If a cup of tea can calm
my nerves and give my soul the assurance that I am in the right place, that I
am HOME regardless of my surroundings, then it is a most important thing. It
deserves recognition and it deserves a certain solemnness of enjoyment.

Thank you for your patience, Dear Reader. Forgive my long
absence. Tell me, what rituals bring you back to your soul-center?

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

It's time for another post of the Insecure Writer's Support Group. Click HERE to find the links of other amazing writers and read their thoughts and inspirations. I promise you'll get something of value from each and every of the posts, even if you're not a writer.

***

Writers like to
complain. We’re too busy to write, uninspired, blocked. We really like to
bemoan the fact we must keep a day job in order to fund our addiction to words,
ink and page. We wait tables, preside over court rooms, change diapers, fix
computers and sell avocado slicers all while dreaming of convalescing in
Cornwall with nothing to do but write. Our souls are wandering Victorians, idle
in life, loaded in bank account and over-flowing with the time it takes to both
write and read works of poetry and prose. And because this fantasy avoids
reality, we cross our arms, poke out our bottom lips and refuse to write until
“situation perfect” is achieved.

The truth is that perfect situation
will never come. The most important lessons a writer can learn are these: start
where you are and no experience is wasted. To the writer, all of life is
research. Our writing steeps in the flavors of experience when we are willing
to open ourselves up – become vulnerable – to each and every moment life hands
us. It is a frightening proposition; nobody likes to be vulnerable. Nobody
enjoys grunt work, third shift or digging ditches in the rain. In Texas. In
August.

Life is experience and experience is
what readers look for when they pick up a new novel or download a short story
collection. The reader asks, “Will this story give me something to take with
me, to keep in my database for future enjoyment and reference?” Perhaps more
than that, the reader is looking for someone who understands his circumstances,
her particular situation. How can we as writers hope to understand a plight or
offer an escape if we ourselves have not lived beyond our writing room walls?

Experience lends believability to even
the most fantastic legend. Let yourself absorb the emotions, the five sense of
every moment you live through. Allow life to be your encyclopedia, your Google.
Don’t shy away from new or scary. Say “yes” until the doors stop opening and
you’ll not only uncover experiences which will help you create stronger
characters and deeper story lines; you will also discover someone stronger,
braver and more beautiful than you could possibly imagine: yourself.

***

I apologize in advance for not being around the IWSG this week. I will read as many as I can as soon as I can. Today is moving day and we're hauling all our stuff (and ourselves) 200 miles away. So, if you don't see me for a few days (or a week) that's why: I'm rearranging life! Have an awesome week! ~ Jen

*Ahem*

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If you wish to use something, shoot me an email. I'll be happy to talk to you about it.

Thank you.

All words, stories, tutorials, photographs, images, artwork, designs, projects, concepts, and ideas (hair-brained or otherwise) belong to Jennifer Chandler, unless noted. Thank you for respecting my intellectual property! I certainly don't mind you using an image for your blog if you credit back with a link. Do let me know if you do! I'd love to stop by for a visit. If you would like to use anything other than a simple image for your blog or other media, send me an email at thecupandpage (at) gmail (dot) com. We'll chat about it over tea. Cheers!